The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales

by Maurice Leblanc

  As to his looks, good or bad, they were said to prove infallibly fatal with women, while not a few men, perhaps for that reason, did their possessor the honour to imitate them. The revues burlesqued him; Sem caricatured him; Forain counterfeited him extensively in that inimitable series of Monday morning cartoons for Le Figaro: one said “De Morbihan” instinctively at sight of that stocky figure, short and broad, topped by a chubby, moon-like mask with waxed moustaches, womanish eyes, and never-failing grin.

  A creature of proverbial good-nature and exhaustless vitality, his extraordinary popularity was due to the equally extraordinary extravagance with which he supported that latest Gallic fad, “le Sport.” The Parisian Rugby team was his pampered protégé, he was an active member of the Tennis Club, maintained not only a flock of automobiles but a famous racing stable, rode to hounds, was a good field gun, patronized aviation and motor-boat racing, risked as many maximums during the Monte Carlo season as the Grand Duke Michael himself, and was always ready to whet rapiers or burn a little harmless powder of an early morning in the Parc aux Princes.

  But there were ugly whispers current with respect to the sources of his fabulous wealth. Lanyard, for one, wouldn’t have thought him the properest company or the best Parisian cicerone for an ailing American gentleman blessed with independent means and an attractive daughter.

  Paris, on the other hand—Paris who forgives everything to him who contributes to her amusement—adored Comte Remy de Morbihan …

  But perhaps Lanyard was prejudiced by his partiality for Americans, a sentiment the outgrowth of the years spent in New York with Bourke. He even fancied that between his spirit and theirs existed some subtle bond of sympathy. For all he knew he might himself be American…

  For some time Lanyard strained to catch something of the conversation that seemed to hold so much of interest for Roddy, but without success because of the hum of voices that filled the room. In time, however, the gathering began to thin out, until at length there remained only this party of three, Lanyard enjoying a most delectable salad, and Roddy puffing a cigar (with such a show of enjoyment that Lanyard suspected him of the sin of smuggling) and slowly gulping down a second bottle of Bass.

  Under these conditions the talk between De Morbihan and the Americans became public property.

  The first remark overheard by Lanyard came from the elderly American, following a pause and a consultation of his watch.

  “Quarter to eleven,” he announced.

  “Plenty of time,” said De Morbihan cheerfully. “That is,” he amended, “if mademoiselle isn’t bored …”

  The girl’s reply, accompanied by a pretty inclination of her head toward the Frenchman, was lost in the accents of the first speaker—a strong and sonorous voice, in strange contrast with his ravaged appearance and distressing cough.

  “Don’t let that worry you,” he advised cheerfully. “Lucia’s accustomed to keeping late hours with me; and who ever heard of a young and pretty woman being bored on the third day of her first visit to Paris?”

  He pronounced the name with the hard C of the Italian tongue, as though it were spelled Luchia.

  “To be sure,” laughed the Frenchman; “one suspects it will be long before mademoiselle loses interest in the rue de la Paix.”

  “You may well, when such beautiful things come from it,” said the girl.

  “See what we found there today.”

  She slipped a ring from her hand and passed it to De Morbihan.

  There followed silence for an instant, then an exclamation from the

  Frenchman:

  “But it is superb! Accept, mademoiselle, my compliments. It is worthy even of you.”

  She flushed prettily as she nodded smiling acknowledgement.

  “Ah, you Americans!” De Morbihan sighed. “You fill us with envy: you have the souls of poets and the wealth of princes!”

  “But we must come to Paris to find beautiful things for our women-folk!”

  “Take care, though, lest you go too far, Monsieur Bannon.”

  “How so—too far?”

  “You might attract the attention of the Lone Wolf. They say he’s on the prowl once more.”

  The American laughed a trace contemptuously. Lanyard’s fingers tightened on his knife and fork; otherwise he made no sign. A sidelong glance into a mirror at his elbow showed Roddy still absorbed in the Daily Mail.

  The girl bent forward with a look of eager interest.

  “The Lone Wolf? Who is that?”

  “You don’t know him in America, mademoiselle?”

  “No….”

  “The Lone Wolf, my dear Lucia,” the valetudinarian explained in a dryly humourous tone, “is the sobriquet fastened by some imaginative French reporter upon a celebrated criminal who seems to have made himself something of a pest over here, these last few years. Nobody knows anything definite about him, apparently, but he operates in a most individual way and keeps the police busy trying to guess where he’ll strike next.”

  The girl breathed an incredulous exclamation.

  “But I assure you!” De Morbihan protested. “The rogue has had a wonderfully successful career, thanks to his dispensing with confederates and confining his depredations to jewels and similar valuables, portable and easy to convert into cash. Yet,” he added, nodding sagely, “one isn’t afraid to predict his race is almost run.”

  “You don’t tell me!” the older man exclaimed. “Have they picked up the scent—at last?”

  “The man is known,” De Morbihan affirmed.

  By now the conversation had caught the interest of several loitering waiters, who were listening open-mouthed. Even Roddy seemed a bit startled, and for once forgot to make business with his newspaper; but his wondering stare was exclusively for De Morbihan.

  Lanyard put down knife and fork, swallowed a final mouthful of Haut Brion, and lighted a cigarette with the hand of a man who knew not the meaning of nerves.

  “Garçon!” he called quietly; and ordered coffee and cigars, with a liqueur to follow….

  “Known!” the American exclaimed. “They’ve caught him, eh?”

  “I didn’t say that,” De Morbihan laughed; “but the mystery is no more—in certain quarters.”

  “Who is he, then?”

  “That—monsieur will pardon me—I’m not yet free to state. Indeed, I may be indiscreet in saying as much as I do. Yet, among friends…”

  His shrug implied that, as far as he was concerned, waiters were unhuman and the other guests of the establishment non-existent.

  “But,” the American persisted, “perhaps you can tell us how they got on his track?”

  “It wasn’t difficult,” said De Morbihan: “indeed, quite simple. This tone of depreciation is becoming, for it was my part to suggest the solution to my friend, the Chief of the Sûreté. He had been annoyed and distressed, had even spoken of handing in his resignation because of his inability to cope with this gentleman, the Lone Wolf. And since he is my friend, I too was distressed on his behalf, and badgered my poor wits until they chanced upon an idea which led us to the light.”

  “You won’t tell us?” the girl protested, with a little moue of disappointment, as the Frenchman paused provokingly.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t. And yet—why not? As I say, it was elementary reasoning—a mere matter of logical deduction and elimination. One made up one’s mind the Lone Wolf must be a certain sort of man; the rest was simply sifting France for the man to fit the theory, and then watching him until he gave himself away.”

  “You don’t imagine we’re going to let you stop there?” The American demanded in an aggrieved tone.

  “No? I must continue? Very well: I confess to some little pride. It was a feat. He is cunning, that one!”

  De Morbihan paused and shifted s
ideways in his chair, grinning like a mischievous child.

  By this manoeuvre, thanks to the arrangement of mirrors lining the walls, he commanded an indirect view of Lanyard; a fact of which the latter was not unaware, though his expression remained unchanged as he sat—with a corner of his eye reserved for Roddy—speculating whether De Morbihan were telling the truth or only boasting for his own glorification.

  “Do go on—please!” the girl begged prettily.

  “I can deny you nothing, mademoiselle…. Well, then! From what little was known of this mysterious creature, one readily inferred he must be a bachelor, with no close friends. That is clear, I trust?”

  “Too deep for me, my friend,” the elderly man confessed.

  “Impenetrable reticence,” the Count expounded, sententious—and enjoying himself hugely—“isn’t possible in the human relations. Sooner or later one is doomed to share one’s secrets, however reluctantly, even unconsciously, with a wife, a mistress, a child, or with some trusted friend. And a secret between two is—a prolific breeder of platitudes! Granted this line of reasoning, the Lone Wolf is of necessity not only unmarried but practically friendless. Other attributes of his will obviously comprise youth, courage, imagination, a rather high order of intelligence, and a social position—let us say, rather, an ostensible business—enabling him to travel at will hither and yon without exciting comment. So far, good! My friend the Chief of the Sûreté forthwith commissioned his agents to seek such an one, and by this means several fine fish were enmeshed in the net of suspicion, carefully scrutinized, and one by one let go—all except one, the veritable man. Him they sedulously watched, shadowing him across Europe and back again. He was in Berlin at the time of the famous Rheinart robbery, though he compassed that coup without detection; he was in Vienna when the British embassy there was looted, but escaped by a clever ruse and managed to dispose of his plunder before the agents of the Sûreté could lay hands on him; recently he has been in London, and there he made love to, and ran away with, the diamonds of a certain lady of some eminence. You have heard of Madame Omber, eh?” Now by Roddy’s expression it was plain that, if Madame Omber’s name wasn’t strange in his hearing, at least he found this news about her most surprising. He was frankly staring, with a slackened jaw and with stupefaction in his blank blue eyes.

  Lanyard gently pinched the small end of a cigar, dipped it into his coffee, and lighted it with not so much as a suspicion of tremor. His brain, however, was working rapidly in effort to determine whether De Morbihan meant this for warning, or was simply narrating an amusing yarn founded on advance information and amplified by an ingenious imagination. For by now the news of the Omber affair must have thrilled many a Continental telegraph-wire….

  “Madame Omber—of course!” the American agreed thoughtfully. “Everyone has heard of her wonderful jewels. The real marvel is that the Lone Wolf neglected so shining a mark as long as he did.”

  “But truly so, monsieur!”

  “And they caught him at it, eh?”

  “Not precisely: but he left a clue—and London, to boot—with such haste as would seem to indicate he knew his cunning hand had, for once, slipped.”

  “Then they’ll nab him soon?”

  “Ah, monsieur, one must say no more!” De Morbihan protested. “Rest assured the Chief of the Sûreté has laid his plans: his web is spun, and so artfully that I think our unsociable outlaw will soon be making friends in the Prison of the Santé…. But now we must adjourn. One is sorry. It has been so very pleasant….”

  A waiter conjured the bill from some recess of his waistcoat and served it on a clean plate to the American. Another ran bawling for the vestiaire. Roddy glued his gaze afresh to the Daily Mail. The party rose.

  Lanyard noticed that the American signed instead of settling the bill with cash, indicating that he resided at Troyon’s as well as dined there. And the adventurer found time to reflect that it was odd for such as he to seek that particular establishment in preference to the palatial modern hostelries of the Rive Droit—before De Morbihan, ostensibly for the first time espying Lanyard, plunged across the room with both hands outstretched and a cry of joyous surprise not really justified by their rather slight acquaintanceship.

  “Ah! Ah!” he clamoured vivaciously. “It is Monsieur Lanyard, who knows all about paintings! But this is delightful, my friend—one grand pleasure! You must know my friends…. But come!”

  And seizing Lanyard’s hands, when that one somewhat reluctantly rose in response to this surprisingly over-exuberant greeting, he dragged him willy-nilly from behind his table.

  “And you are American, too. Certainly you must know one another.

  Mademoiselle Bannon—with your permission—my friend, Monsieur Lanyard.

  And Monsieur Bannon—an old, dear friend, with whom you will share a

  passion for the beauties of art.”

  The hand of the American, when Lanyard clasped it, was cold, as cold as ice; and as their eyes met that abominable cough laid hold of the man, as it were by the nape of his neck, and shook him viciously. Before it had finished with him, his sensitively coloured face was purple, and he was gasping, breathless—and infuriated.

  “Monsieur Bannon,” De Morbihan explained disconnectedly—“it is most distressing—I tell him he should not stop in Paris at this season—”

  “It is nothing!” the American interposed brusquely between paroxysms.

  “But our winter climate, monsieur—it is not fit for those in the prime of health—”

  “It is I who am unfit!” Bannon snapped, pressing a handkerchief to his lips—“unfit to live!” he amended venomously.

  Lanyard murmured some conventional expression of sympathy. Through it all he was conscious of the regard of the girl. Her soft brown eyes met his candidly, with a look cool in its composure, straightforward in its enquiry, neither bold nor mock-demure. And if they were the first to fall, it was with an effect of curiosity sated, without hint of discomfiture…. And somehow the adventurer felt himself measured, classified, filed away.

  Between amusement and pique he continued to stare while the elderly American recovered his breath and De Morbihan jabbered on with unfailing vivacity; and he thought that this closer scrutiny discovered in her face contours suggesting maturity of thought beyond her apparent years—which were somewhat less than the sum of Lanyard’s—and with this the suggestion of an elusive, provoking quality of wistful languor, a hint of patient melancholy….

  “We are off for a glimpse of Montmartre,” De Morbihan was explaining—“Monsieur Bannon and I. He has not seen Paris in twenty years, he tells me. Well, it will be amusing to show him what changes have taken place in all that time. One regrets mademoiselle is too fatigued to accompany us. But you, my friend—now if you would consent to make our third, it would be most amiable of you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lanyard excused himself; “but as you see, I am only just in from the railroad, a long and tiresome journey. You are very good, but I—”

  “Good!” De Morbihan exclaimed with violence. “I? On the contrary, I am a very selfish man; I seek but to afford myself the pleasure of your company. You lead such a busy life, my friend, romping about Europe, here one day, God-knows-where the next, that one must make one’s best of your spare moments. You will join us, surely?”

  “Really I cannot tonight. Another time perhaps, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “But it is always this way!” De Morbihan explained to his friends with a vast show of mock indignation. “‘Another time, perhaps’—his invariable excuse! I tell you, not two men in all Paris have any real acquaintance with this gentleman whom all Paris knows! His reserve is proverbial—‘as distant as Lanyard,’ we say on the boulevards!” And turning again to the adventurer, meeting his cold stare with the De Morbihan grin of quenchless effrontery—“As you will, my friend!” he granted. �
�But should you change your mind—well, you’ll have no trouble finding us. Ask any place along the regular route. We see far too little of one another, monsieur—and I am most anxious to have a little chat with you.”

  “It will be an honour,” Lanyard returned formally….

  In his heart he was pondering several most excruciating methods of murdering the man. What did he mean? How much did he know? If he knew anything, he must mean ill, for assuredly he could not be ignorant of Roddy’s business, or that every other word he uttered was rivetting suspicion on Lanyard of identity with the Lone Wolf, or that Roddy was listening with all his ears and staring into the bargain!

  Decidedly something must be done to silence this animal, should it turn out he really did know anything!

  It was only after profound reflection over his liqueur (while Roddy devoured his Daily Mail and washed it down with a third bottle of Bass) that Lanyard summoned the maitre-d’hôtel and asked for a room.

  It would never do to fix the doubts of the detective by going elsewhere that night. But, fortunately, Lanyard knew that warren which was Troyon’s as no one else knew it; Roddy would find it hard to detain him, should events seem to advise an early departure.

  CHAPTER IV

  A STRATAGEM

  When the maitre-d’hôtel had shown him all over the establishment (innocently enough, en route, furnishing him with a complete list of his other guests and their rooms: memoranda readily registered by a retentive memory) Lanyard chose the bed-chamber next that occupied by Roddy, in the second storey.

  The consideration influencing this selection was—of course—that, so situated, he would be in position not only to keep an eye on the man from Scotland Yard but also to determine whether or no Roddy were disposed to keep an eye on him.

  In those days Lanyard’s faith in himself was a beautiful thing. He could not have enjoyed the immunity ascribed to the Lone Wolf as long as he had without gaining a power of sturdy self-confidence in addition to a certain amount of temperate contempt for spies of the law and all their ways.